Draco wore a bitter scowl. Logan hadn't been logic, Logan had attacked him and Cillian did nothing to stop the attack. He was bitter and could not wait to get his long awaited revenge. He stood up, the pain from the lashes was barely there anymore but they did leave red scores all along his back and stomach. He had been thinking for a long time and it was finally time to put his plan into action.

Logan had fallen asleep against his door and woke up there, tears dry on his cheeks and hair tousled and sticking up in places. His glasses left marks on his face and he felt the grooves in his skin with gentle fingers. He stretched his legs, which had been drawn up to his chest all night and picked his tired form up from the floor with little motivation. Patton would know he had left and insist that he come down and eat with the others, including Virgil. Logan didn't bother with a change of clothes, he would do that after he had eaten. His shirt rode up a little from the way it had been all night and it left a small amount of his stomach and some bandages exposed. Patton looked up from whatever he was preparing for breakfast and gasped when he saw Logan's dishevelled form.

"Logan! What on earth happened to you, you look like death!"
"Death is pretty accurate, especially considering last night..." Logan murmured, sleep and tears still present in his voice. At that very moment, Virgil walked in. He looked over Logan's bedraggled stature in shock. Virgil had tears in his eyes and his lip trembled as the tears threatened to spill. Logan rushed over and wrapped his arms around Virgil's chest, hoping that was what Virgil wanted. Virgil was grasping Logan's shirt like a lifeline and wailing that he never wanted to see Logan hurting like that again. Logan was taken aback by this display but still held Virgil close, letting his own tears fall - only noted by the quiver in his voice as he calmed Virgil down and told him how much he meant. Logan was having a little trouble trusting again but he felt so safe with Virgil and had decided to break down some walls, not all of them but enough for Virgil to see that he knew the pain he was feeling too. Patton let them be, listening to their comforting words to each other and wishing that Roman would do that for him.

"Well, hello wonderfu- Patton?"
"Yes Ro?"
"Why are Logan and Virgil hugging and sobbing their eyes out in the middle of the sitting room?"
"Oh! They had a little bit of an argument yesterday and, well, Virgil likes Logan and was torn up about it so I told him to confess, or at least make up with Logan"
"I knew it!"
"Knew what?"
"That they were in love!"
"Well, I don't know about Logan, but Virgil..."
"Logan's last words were ' tell Virgil that I love him'"
"Please don't talk about that"
"But he loves him, they're in love, Pat!" Roman continued spouting nonsense about how cute they were together the entire time that Patton made breakfast. Patton dished up the pancakes on four plates and placed them on the table, having a knack for things a parent would normally be able to do involved a strange ability to balance a multitude of plates on his arms and even one on his head. Patton chuckled when he saw Virgil and Logan still hugging, tears silent now, in Virgil's chair. He cleared his throat and continued to smile when the two turned slightly to look at him.

"Breakfast"
"Oh, thanks dad. Just a sec." Logan stammered, using a lot of his strength to pick himself up and hold Virgil at the same time.

"You're going to drop me!"
"I won't if you stop squirming!"
"Fine, but if you drop me be prepared to hear me scream."
"Will do, your majesty" Logan quipped. A glass smashed in the kitchen and Virgil jumped out of Logan's arms and ran to the kitchen in pursuit of Patton. Logan didn't know what was going on. He heard gasping and sobbing. A panic attack. He caused it. Roman? He didn't bother going to find out, he held himself until he got to his room. Then his own panic set in, his own depression kicked into overdrive, his self-loathing punched him full in the gut as he headed into his bathroom. When he was in the bathroom he pulled out a pocket knife from in the cabinet behind the mirror and drew the blade across his wrist. Once, twice, four times, eight. Eight was enough, eight was good. He pulled out a small roll of gauze and wrapped it around his wrist tight before returning to his bed and dropping on it, not aware of when he went to sleep or what would happen in his sleep.